


Winning Hearts and Minds (and Spikes)

by TrebleTwenty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Hijinks & Shenanigans, Immature Sexual Humour, Propaganda
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-07-12 19:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16001933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrebleTwenty/pseuds/TrebleTwenty
Summary: “I’m willing to pose provocatively for the camera,” the Prime said, very seriously, “if it will help the Autobot war effort.”The Autobot-Decepticon propaganda war takes a very strange turn.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> may god have mercy on my immortal soul for writing this tbh
> 
> no pairings but watch me imply my heart out
> 
> EDIT: red--thedragon on tumblr made this very important art of the First Poster  
> http://red--thedragon.tumblr.com/post/179247969945/its-finished-trebletwenty-enjoy-this

 

“Do you think it’s supposed to be like that?”

“I hope it is,” and “I hope it isn’t,” two bots said at the same time.

Jazz’s keen audial caught the thread of the conversation from across the courtyard. Interested, he looked over, and saw a group of mechs all clustered around a pillar, presumably looking at something stuck to it. He nudged Prowl, walking next to him.

“That look like something we should be breakin’ up?” he murmured. Prowl looked over and groaned.

“Looks like it, yes,” Prowl said. “I just hope it isn’t a picture of Starscream’s aft again. I know it’s fine-”

“You’re damn right.”

“-but he’s the second in command of the enemy.” Prowl finished with a glare at Jazz, who only grinned cheekily back for his trouble.

“Yours is fine too, if that helps,” Jazz offered generously.

“It doesn’t,” Prowl sighed, and muttered something uncharitable about everyone around him thinking with their interface array, which Jazz didn’t think was entirely fair. Some people thought with their guns, too.

They went over.

“-makes me uncomfortable-” someone was just finishing saying as Jazz and Prowl came up behind the unlikely group, a mismatch of mechs of all shapes and sizes. Someone had a minibot on their shoulders so said mini could see better.

“Alright, mechs, break it up,” Jazz announced.

The group collectively jumped about a foot in the air. The minibot tumbled off his perch as his perch spun round to face the officers. Someone shrieked at a decibel rarely attained by cybertronian kind, and someone else hurriedly ripped the poster they’d been intently studying down. Jazz snickered. He never tired of the chaos he could cause simply by moving up behind people very, very quietly.

“Jazz, sir, Prowl, sir!” The mech who was obviously holding the poster behind his back barked. He snapped a quick salute with his free hand, then tucked it straight behind his back again.

“At ease soldier,” Prowl said. Jazz did his best to look suitably serious next to him. The mech relaxed slightly. His hands remained clasped behind his back.

“Is there any problem, sir?” The minibot from before asked, picking himself up off the floor. He glared up at his tall friend, who winced apologetically.

“No problem,” said Prowl.

“We’d just like a look at whatever you’ve got in your hand there,” Jazz added, nodding at the mech with the poster. “Then we’ll be on our way. Big ol’ gang of gossips like that, you can’t blame a mech for being curious, right?”

“Right,” the poster mech agreed.

“Right,” Jazz echoed. There was silence.

“Ah, um, which hand?” the mech asked. The chastised group of gossips groaned.

“Really? That’s what you go for?” The minibot tutted.

“The poster you’re holding behind your back,” Prowl said, voice clipped. “If you say ‘which back’, I will discipline every single one of you.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” the mech grumbled. He handed over the poster. Jazz’s eyes widened. Prowl was lost for words.

“I, ah-” Jazz reset his vocaliser, and tried again. “Where did you get this?” he said in a small voice.

“Was just there when we got here,” the minibot said with a shrug. “Hey, are we in trouble or not? I got places to be.”

Jazz looked at Prowl for confirmation. Prowl waved a hand in affirmative, still staring at the poster.

“You’re all free to go,” Jazz said magnanimously. “Don’t let me catch you standing around gossiping again without inviting me, alright?” The group dispersed with minimal grumbling, although Jazz did think he heard a whisper of one mech saying how he’d been planning to keep the poster. He decided he didn’t really want to think about that one too much. He returned to examining the newest ‘Con propaganda poster with Prowl.

“This is…” Prowl was saying. “Is this on purpose or not?” He shook the poster at Jazz, demanding he take it.

Prowl was right. It was hard to tell if it was on purpose or not.

It was Megatron, as many of their recruitment posters often were. The ‘Cons knew exactly what they had, and his fiery gaze stared down from all corners of Kaon, looking into mech’s sparks and compelling them to action. This poster was a little different.

In this, Megatron was turned to the side, his intense gaze directed out of frame with a steely set to his mouth. He was backlit to accentuate his profile, his nose sharper, his brow heavier, his red eyes glinting all the brighter. On one side he bore the signature fusion cannon but on the other…

Jazz zoomed in.

On the other he held a standard issue pistol in his hand at a, uh, _interesting_ angle. Combined with the backlighting, it looked almost like. Well. It looked like he had his spike out.

“You know what,” Jazz said to Prowl. “I really can’t tell if this is on purpose or not.”

“Mhm,” Prowl said. He was thinking.

“On one hand,” Jazz went on, “how could you do this by accident? This would’ve had to have been approved by the entire high command. On the other hand, _why would you do this on purpose?_ It’s kinda a risky move, isn’t it?”

“Exactly,” Prowl said. “We’d better take this to Prime.”

“Prime?” Jazz asked, startled. “Sure he needs to know?”

“Jazz, if I’m right, this could mark a turning point for the entire Decepticon propaganda machine,” Prowl said. “We need to respond in kind.”

“Damn,” said Jazz.

 

* * *

 

“Damn,” said Ironhide.

The entire meeting seemed to be lost for words.

“That’s what _I_ said!” Jazz exclaimed.

“Thats-” Prime reset his vocaliser, sounding a little strangled. “That’s all that can be said, really.” His fingers tightened unconsciously on the Megatron poster he was holding. Prowl did not like the look of that grip.

Jazz and Prowl had brought the Megatron Spike Poster (as it was now known) to the command meeting as planned, only to find Blaster and Ironhide had brought similar findings to the table already. There was also a Deadlock poster and a Starscream poster.

“Deadlock was an interesting choice,” Prowl commented idly.

“Not really,” Jazz replied. “Racer frame. It’s classic sexy.” Deadlock had been photographed in action, a fierce look on his face, but from an angle somewhere below him looking up, so it emphasized his interface panel.

“Yeah,” Blaster agreed. As head of communications, propaganda fell under his purview. “Racers have a universal appeal. You’d be hard pressed to find someone who didn’t find racer frames a little sexy.” He looked around the room, and most mechs nodded grudgingly. Prime frowned, and Blaster looked at him in surprise. Prime shrugged. Well, no accounting for taste, he supposed.

“Same for seekers, I suppose?” Jazz asked. “I know I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on a nicely turned thruster.”

“Exotic for grounders, the obvious choice for flyers,” Ironhide said. “And Starscream is generally considered to be one of the finest examples of the frametype flying today.”

There were murmurs of agreement from around the room.

“Damn right,” Jazz said.

“He is?” Prime wondered aloud. Jazz gave him a strange look.

“And this poster is-” Prowl picked it up and looked at it closely. “-confirmation that the other two are definitely on purpose?”

“I think we can all agree on that,” Ratchet said faintly. The way Starscream was biting his lip left no doubt in anyone’s mind as to the purpose of this poster.

“The only question is,” Prowl said, “why did they do this? This isn’t-”

He looked down at the table, at Starscream’s delicate lip plating held between his teeth, pinned in place by a tantalising hint of fang, leaving a tiny indent in the supple metal. He hurriedly looked away.

“-it’s just not how it’s done,” he finished quietly.

“Blaster,” Prime asked. “Is it working?”

Blaster checked his calculations again, for the answer he already knew in his spark was true.

“Yes,” was all he replied.  

There was a stunned silence. Jazz started to laugh.

“Well, I guess we should respond in kind,” Ironhide said, raising his voice slightly to be heard over Jazz laughing himself silly. “If it’s working, and all.”

“I don’t know,” Ratchet said. “It feels a little sleazy.”

“Hey, if the neutrals are horny, the neutrals are horny.” Jazz shrugged, wiping away a tear of mirth. “We can’t help what works.”

“We’d need to look into which of us are considered the most attractive among the neutrals,” Prowl mused.

“That’d be you, Prowler,” Jazz said.

“Me?” Prowl squeaked, shocked straight out of his analytical processor. He stared at Jazz like he’d never seen him before. Jazz stared back, utterly perplexed.

“Are you not aware you’re generally considered to be hot as slag, Prowler?” Jazz asked after a moment. “Because you’re meant to be a tactical genius and I really don’t know how you could have missed that.”

“I guess I just liked to think I was considered to be a no-nonsense tactician. Not… _sexy._ ” Prowl’s lip curled in disgust. Nobody had ever said sexy with quite that level of disdain before.

“Nothing wrong with being sexy, Prowl,” Jazz replied gently.

“Yeah, Prowl, you gotta own it,” Ironhide said with a snigger. Jazz kicked him underneath the meeting table and Ironhide squawked in indignation. Served him right. Jazz didn’t think attitudes like that would help coax Prowl out of his shell one bit.

“Is this really the direction we’re going to be taking this meeting?” Prowl asked, to nobody in particular.

“We need to get you in touch with your sensual side, Prowler,” Jazz said, “if we’re going to beat the ‘Cons at their own game.” He winked.

“Primus,” Prowl groaned. Jazz was having way too much fun with this. Prowl looked to Optimus for help. Optimus was still holding the Megatron poster.

“Surely this is too much, Optimus,” he tried, as a last resort. “We’ll be making fools of ourselves.”

The Prime looked rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“I think,” he began, “that if what Blaster says is true, and this kind of approach is fostering pro-Decepticon sentiment among the neutrals, then we would be remiss if we didn’t at least try.” Prowl deflated. So much for his dignity, then.

“I’m willing to pose provocatively for the camera,” the Prime said, very seriously, “if it will help the Autobot war effort.”

“We’re not going to make you do anything you’re not comfortable with,” Ratchet assured Prowl.

“I’m not comfortable with this conversation.”

“You’ll be fine,” Jazz assured him with a wave of his hand. “The doorwings will be doing half the work for you anyway.”

“What about my doorwings?” Prowl asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Primus, mech, how can you not know that-”

“What I wonder,” Blaster interrupted forcefully, “is how the ‘Cons even came up with this in the first place. Starscream and Deadlock are all very well and good, but Megatron? He’s got those intense eyes, but there’s not that universal appeal there is with seekers or racers. Feels like a risk, and Soundwave doesn’t do risky.”

“I don’t know,” Prime said, “his frame has a savage sort of grace to it. I can see someone wanting to be held down by all that barely restrained power-”

He trailed off, registering the way the rest of the Autobots were looking at him. His eyes got very wide.

“-I mean, er, if you like that sort of thing,” he finished hurriedly.

They were still staring.

“Which I don’t,” he said.

No response.

“Look,” he tried again, “can we just forget about that? I don’t know what came over me.”

“Well, we know at least one mech finds Megatron sexy-” Jazz finally said.

“I don’t!” cried Optimus.

“-but unless Soundwave had those posters commissioned especially for you - which I wouldn’t put past him - there’s obviously an untapped well of Warframe lust out there, and that’s something we can use. Somebody call up Sunstreaker.”

 

 

* * *

 

“You were right to come to me,” Sunstreaker assured them. “I can make anyone sexy.”

“Even Prowl?” Ironhide asked, sceptical.

“Prowl’s already sexy, he just needs to act like it,” Sunstreaker replied without looking at either him or Prowl, who was hovering around the entrance to Sunstreaker’s studio - which was, of course, the meeting room they’d just been in but with some adjustable spotlights brought in - looking very tense. He looked up at Optimus, fidgeting back and forth on the small podium Sunstreaker had had brought in, one hand reflexively rubbing up and down the barrel of his gun.

“Did you have any ideas for poses, Prime?” Sunstreaker asked, looking him up and down thoughtfully. The fact he'd brought a prop had Sunstreaker quite hopeful.

“Oh, yes, lots.”

Optimus sounded almost excited.

“Excellent,” Sunstreaker replied, and swept in with a polishing cloth, working at some imagined speck of dirt on the Prime’s thigh. Optimus acquiesced to Sunstreaker’s exacting beauty standards with barely a flinch, and Sunstreaker’s opinion of him shot up. “Makes my job a lot easier. I can save some energy for Prowl.”

They both looked over at Prowl, who looked like he was about to make a run for it. Jazz went over, ostensibly to comfort him, while surreptitiously shifting Prowl around until Jazz was between him and the exit.

“He’s obviously uncomfortable; I wish he would just tell us to leave him alone.” Optimus sighed.

“But he’s too proud to admit it, I know,” Sunstreaker agreed. “I’ll keep it simple for him today. Don’t want to scare him off. Now give me your hand. The right one.”

“Thank you,” Optimus said. He gave Sunstreaker his hand, and smiled down at him fondly as he rummaged in his subspace for a tiny buffer and set to buffing out microscopic dents in Optimus’s trigger finger. Sunstreaker concentrated so hard on his task his vision started to glitch, uncomfortable with the full power of Prime’s gaze.

“He better appreciate having my expertees on hand,” he grumbled.

“I’m sure he will. You are an artist, after all,” Prime assured him.

“You’re damn right I am,” Sunstreaker replied with a grin. “Now the other hand.”

“Sunstreaker, we don’t have time for a full wax and polish,” Ratchet called over. “Leave him alone.”

“You’re monsters, the lot of you!” Sunstreaker hissed, but he tucked the buffer back in his subspace anyway.

“Is he ready?” Ironhide asked.

“If I had my way,” Sunstreaker orated with a dramatic sigh, “I would spend the next orn buffing him to perfection, followed by a full detailing - I’ve been working on some ideas for a new paint-job -  and then a wax and polish. But no, you want me to put him in front of the camera like this? I’m surrounded by philistines, I don’t know why I put up with any of you, I really don’t.”

“Primus.” Ironhide rolled his eyes. “He looks fine. Calm down.” 

“ _Fine?_ ” Sunstreaker shrieked. “Fine? _I’ll show you-_ ”

“Prime, you ready?” Ironhide asked loudly, interrupting Sunstreaker’s possible nervous breakdown with all the grace of a bulldozer. They had to get through this as quickly as possible. Prowl was starting to eye Jazz’s frame blocking the exit like he was considering lethal force.

“I believe I am,” Optimus said. He frowned for a moment, considering, before hefting his gun up onto his shoulder and settling into a pose. The room went silent.

“Is this good?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah, Prime, that’s-” Sunstreaker hurriedly cleared his vocaliser of static. “That’s perfect. Thanks.”

He stood facing away from the camera with his gun resting on his shoulder like one of the old action movie stars, but with his hip popped and a glance back over his shoulder nothing short of smouldering. It was the perfect balance between power and seduction. It was like he'd done this before.

“Damn…” Jazz whistled. Sunstreaker hurriedly shushed him.

Prowl wasn’t casting longing looks at the door anymore. Instead, he was staring at Optimus wide-eyed, his jaw hanging slightly open as if he’d lost the subroutine that kept it closed.

“Do-” he rebooted his vocaliser- “do I have to do that?” he asked Jazz.

“Don’t worry, buddy-” Jazz patted him on the shoulder- “you’ll be fine.”

“Because I don’t think I can do… _that_.” He gestured to what was happening over Jazz’s shoulder. Jazz gestured to Ratchet to keep his eye on Prowl, who was still a flight risk, and turned round to watch.

“More smoulder, Prime!” Sunstreaker barked as he danced around their makeshift stage wielding his camera (and it was _his_ camera, painstakingly preserved all through the war - honestly, they might have to look into getting Sunstreaker in on Propaganda on a more permanent basis) like a weapon. Jazz never expected a photo shoot to need quite so much aggression, but then again, maybe that was just Sunstreaker. 

“Perfect!” Sunstreaker cried. “Hold it, hold it… now pop that hip!” He executed a complex pirouette-type maneuver with the camera held in both hands and adjusted a light with one of his feet.

“Show-off,” grumbled Ironhide.

“It’ll be fine,” Jazz said to Prowl, who was now looking very alarmed, with his doorwings fluttering agitatedly behind him, mouthing ‘pop hip?’ to himself. “You just have to stand there, I promise, and I’ll move you. Yeah?”

“You’re going to pose him like an action figure?” Ratchet asked.

“Well, yeah,” Jazz said, “I don’t think he’s got much of an idea of how to pose sexy himself.”

“Can you not talk about me like I’m not here, please?” Prowl snapped.

“Well, do you?”

Prowl thought for a moment. “Like… this?” he said hesitantly, settling into a pose. Jazz and Ratchet winced.

“You’ve got your work cut out for you, Sunstreaker!” Ironhide called, chuckling.

“Interrupt my process again and I’ll rip your arm off!” Sunstreaker called back cheerily.

Prowl deflated. “Alright, you don’t have to be cruel about it,” he muttered.

“Come on, Prowler, it’s no big deal,” Jazz soothed, feeling guilty as Prowl’s shoulders crept up around his audials. “So you’re not one for being sexy, that’s fine. You’ve still got the scariest processor in the business.” 

“That’s true,” Prowl said thoughtfully.

“Not what we want when we’re trying to make sexy posters, though,” Ironhide pointed out.

“Sunstreaker isn’t the only one who can rip arms off, my friend,” Jazz quipped. Ratchet rolled his optics.

“Honestly, I get no respect around here,” Ironhide said.

“Look,” Ratchet said, coming forward. He took hold of one of Prowl’s arms and brought it up so the hand was resting just above the left headlight on his bumper. He went around behind Prowl to consider the effect from another angle. “You could just try- oh no you don’t!” he dropped Prowl in an instant as he caught sight of what was happening on the stage. “Optimus Prime!” he snapped, storming towards Sunstreaker and his muse. “Get your tongue off that blaster this instant!”

There was a clatter as the Prime hurriedly dropped the gun.

Sunstreaker gave a wordless shriek and threw his hands up in the air in a rage. He looked about to start for Ratchet, but Optimus grabbed one of his wrists and spun him around to face him.

“Please don’t tear Ratchet’s arm off,” he said with a beseeching little smile, the deep rumble of his voice suffusing Sunstreaker’s frame with its Titan-steady calm. “I rather prefer it where it is.”

“...fine.” Sunstreaker deflated, all the anger rushing out of him. He was helpless to resist that face.

 

  

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Autobots discuss the impact of their new propaganda strategy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> treating you to the last of my chapter backlog bc i am a benevolent god  
> thank you for all the kudos and comments, i love this fandom primus bless
> 
> you should,,,, come visit me on tumblr (still trebletwenty),,,, tell me your sexy poster thoughts

 

 

Jazz had to admit to feeling a little guilty when he walked into the follow-up meeting a couple of deca-cycles after the launch of their new sexed-up propaganda campaign and saw Prowl already sulking in his seat, staring at the posters affixed to the wall behind Optimus’s chair with intense venom.

Only a little, mind you. He wasn’t in the business of guilt.

Prowl had been feeling the effects of the release of the posters among the mecha - namely, a sharp uptick in the number of bots blatantly lusting after him, a figure which hadn’t been too shabby in the first place. Prowl - being himself -of course thought it was a terrible development. Jazz didn’t really get him. If a bot was after the bumper, then that bot’d better do whatever you said. It was simple psychology that Jazz himself felt no shame in taking advantage of whenever the situation arose. Prowl could have _legions_ eating out of the palm of his hand. Jazz clearly needed to sort him out.

“Ah, it’s you,” Prowl said frostily. He turned his back to Jazz, his doorwings raised at a sharp and hostile angle.

“Ouch,” said Ironhide. Jazz went over and took his seat next to him, with Optimus’s as-yet empty chair at the head of the table on his other side and across from Prowl. Prowl swivelled his chair and turned away again haughtily.

“Can you ever find it in your spark to forgive me, Prowler?” Jazz asked plaintively.

“No.”

Ironhide let out a bark of laughter.

“Damn, that’s cold.” Jazz held a palm over his chest, protecting his poor, lonely spark. “Oh, Prowler, how I wish it didn’t have to be this way.” He sprawled out over the meeting table, reaching out to Prowl. Prowl scooted his chair further back. Ratchet, who’d just come in and was taking his seat on Ironhide’s other side, tutted.

“Jazz, why can’t you leave the poor bot alone?” he asked. “Haven’t we done enough?”

“I just need him to seeeeeeeeee,” Jazz whined. He wriggled further onto the table, his aft leaving the seat entirely. “Hundreds of bots being hungry for your aft doesn’t have to be a _bad_ thing…”

“Can you hear something, Ironhide?” Prowl asked. Jazz let his head thunk down onto the table in defeat.

“Can’t say that I do, Prowl,” Ironhide said with a grin. He reached out and smacked Jazz’s exposed aft with a clang. Jazz squeaked in outrage and rolled over onto his back, aiming a kick loosely in Ironhide’s direction, which he dodged with a chuckle. Sprawled out on the meeting table, Jazz tilted his head back to look at Prowl. Still turned away. Damn.

“Must it always be like this, Jazz?” Blaster asked. Jazz twisted round to look at him as he took his seat next to Prowl.

“It must,” Jazz said solemnly.

“I’m not sure why Prime still gives you a chair,” Ironhide mused, “seeing as you never fragging sit in it.”

“Freedom is the right of all sentient beings, Ironhide,” Jazz replied, very seriously. “That’s a direct quote from the mech himself. That means it’s my right to sit in my chair or not sit in my chair as I please.”

Ironhide nodded. “That checks out,” he said, “just as it’s my right to smack your aft when it’s in my face.”

Jazz frowned. “That’s not what it means at all, actually.”

“Smacking Jazz’s aft is the right of all sentient beings,” Ironhide said. “That’s what you said, right? It checks out.”

“ _Neither of you are using that correctly_!” Prowl hissed.

“Prowler!” Jazz cheered.

“What??” Prowl snapped. “Oh for Primus’s… just sit down!” He gestured angrily at the empty chair.

“I don’t want to sit in my chair, though.” Jazz pouted.

“I can’t take you seriously when you’re looking at me from upside down like that,” Prowl said. He pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers and closed his eyes, sighing heavily.

“I think you’ll find that you’re the upside-down one, actually,” Jazz said, squinting up at Prowl’s stony face from his very clearly upside-down position on the table. Prowl roared in frustration and jumped out of his seat, grabbing the edge of the table - Jazz sent a quick prayer up to Primus that Ironhide would be willing to catch him - but was stopped in his tracks by a big blue hand set on his shoulder.

“Remember what happened last time,” Optimus warned in his deep serious voice. Prowl wilted and sat back down almost immediately.

“Sorry sir,” he muttered.

“What’s this, Jazz, an audition?” Sunstreaker asked. “Cause if so, it’s working.” Jazz wriggled round on the table to face Sunstreaker, who was blatantly looking him up and down. Jazz winked.

“I reckon I could go behind the camera for you sometime, Sunny,” Jazz said. He ran a teasing hand along his bumper and was gratified when Sunstreaker’s gaze followed it. “If you think you can handle it.”

“You can be in the next wave,” Sunstreaker promised. “And I’m taking your chair.”

“Next wave?” Prowl asked.

“No! Give me that-” Jazz lunged for the chair, scrabbling over the tabletop, but Sunstreaker yanked it right out of his grip with a cackle, swung it around and sat on it with an air of great smugness. Jazz let his forehead thunk down in defeat, his hands closing around air.

“Prime,” Prowl pleaded, “what was that about the next wave?”

Nobody answered him.

“Sunstreaker,” Jazz whined, “there’s an empty chair right over there.” He waved a hand at the seat next to Blaster.

“But I want this one,” Sunstreaker said.

“That one’s mine!”

“Were you using it?”

Jazz flopped onto his back with a sigh. “No,” he acknowledged.

Prowl looked desperately from Ironhide to Ratchet, from Optimus to Blaster, but everyone avoided his gaze.

“Prime?” he said, quieter.

“Uh-” Blaster cleared his throat “-you see, the thing is-”

“The campaign has been a huge success,” Sunstreaker drawled, “thanks to my incredible talent, naturally. Prime wants more.” He kicked his feet up onto the table and leant back in his chair with a smug grin. “You’re welcome.”

“Woo!” Jazz cheered. “Score one for good ideas!” He did a quick army-crawl over the tabletop and high-fived Sunstreaker.

“You’re kidding,” Prowl said flatly.

“Sorry Prowl,” Blaster said, “but the numbers don’t lie. Autobot support is up in several key territories.”

“I wouldn’t joke about this, Prowl,” Optimus said solemnly, “knowing how you feel about the issue. But Blaster and Sunstreaker believe that we haven’t seen all the results this campaign can give us yet, and after seeing the numbers, I’m inclined to agree with them.”

“Let me see those,” Prowl grumbled. Blaster held out a datapad and Prowl snatched it from his grip, peering at it suspiciously as he scrolled. After a moment, he tossed it onto the table and folded his arms, glaring at it.

“Can it at least not be me?” Prowl pleaded with Optimus.

“Prowl, I-”

“Turns out than when someone doesn’t actually know you,” Sunstreaker said, “that stick-up-your-aft expression you’re always wearing looks more like a sexy smoulder.” He threw his hands up. “Who knew?”

Jazz raised his hand from where he was lying in the middle of the table, watching Sunstreaker like a hawk for a moment of weakness. He was having that chair back. “I knew!”

“My reputation is never going to recover,” Prowl groaned, letting his head thud down onto the table. Jazz wiggled over to pat it.

“There, there, you can get a better one,” Jazz promised. Prowl just growled softly, but let the patting happen.

“You’re wearing him down, Jazz,” Blaster commented.

“Brutally unattainable sex symbol?” Jazz sighed. “It’s every personnel manager’s dream persona. I’m so jealous.”

“I hate you,” Prowl mumbled. He swatted Jazz’s hand away from his head without looking up.

There was a knock at the door.

“If that’s Jackpot coming for my aft tell him I’m not in,” Prowl said.

Bumblebee poked his head round the door, looking very worried. “I hate to interrupt, sir,” he said, addressing Optimus, “but it’s the cons. They’ve, uh, they’ve replied.” He came into the room, and then they saw the bundle of posters he had clasped to his chest with one arm.

“Holy frag,” said Sunstreaker. “I want the Starscream one. What?” he said belligerently when they all gave him a judging look. “We’re obviously in this for the long haul. These are going to have _collector’s value_.” He leant forward and slapped the table to emphasise his last words.

“This isn’t happening,” said Prowl.

“Are you sure it isn’t because you and Sideswipe want sexy seeker pin-ups?” Ironhide asked, sceptical.

“My brother definitely did not buy the first Starscream poster off me,” Sunstreaker confirmed.

“That’s what I thought.” Ironhide chuckled. “Hey, Bee, there any good seeker pin-ups for this idiot and his idiot twin?”

“There’s a Starscream _and_ a Skywarp,” Bee said.

“Nice of them to give me two this time,” Sunstreaker said, rubbing his hands together. Bee checked his stack again.

“Oh, and a Command Trine group shot,” he added.

“Sweet _Primus_ ,” Sunstreaker said, lunging over the table towards Bee with grabby hands. “Give me that one right now.” Jazz took the opportunity to slide over the table feet first and kick him out of his chair. Bee looked down at Sunstreaker, sprawled at his feet, one hand still reaching up towards him for the sexy seeker goods, and stepped gingerly over him on the way to hand the stack to Prime.

Sunstreaker sat up and glared at Jazz, who was already sprawled out on the chair like he’d been there the whole time. Jazz waggled finger-guns at him. Sunstreaker got up, dusted himself down huffily, and sat in his lap. Jazz made a quiet ‘oof’ sound. Sunstreaker was bigger than him. As Prime cast a quick optic over the new posters that Bee had brought in, Sunstreaker looked around the table, daring anyone to say anything. Ironhide had his hand pressed over his mouth trying to smother his laughter, and Prowl was glaring at him with the kind of venom that suggested he was about to leap up and try and flip the table again, followed by Sunstreaker, then Jazz, and then possibly Megatron himself.

“Take a seat, Bumblebee.” Prime gestured to the empty chair next to Blaster, most of his attention still absorbed by the posters.

“Um, okay?” Bumblebee said hesitantly. He looked at Sunstreaker and Jazz questioningly. Sunstreaker shrugged. Jazz stuck his hand out around Sunstreaker’s back and gave Bumblebee a shaky thumbs up. Bumblebee judged it alright to sit down.

“How’s the trine one, Prime?” Sunstreaker asked.

“Well,” Prime said faintly, “I’m sure Sideswipe is going to be very happy.” He put the stack of posters down in front of Prowl and put his face in his hands.

“What’s wrong with you?” Ironhide said.

“The Megatron one,” Prime said hoarsely.

Prowl’s eyes widened as he flipped through the stack, and Blaster leant over his shoulder to watch. He whistled.

“Damn, Starscream is flexible,” he said. He plucked it out of the pile and slid it across the table to Sunstreaker, who held it aloft triumphantly and kissed it.

“I hope he never grows a sense of shame,” Sunstreaker said.

“Trine group shot… hey, Ratchet, look at this,” Blaster said.

“No thank you,” Ratchet said. “Funnily enough, I’m not in the mood to ogle Decepticons today.”

“Shame. Oh, Megatron let _Deadlock_ lick his gun, Ratchet.” Blaster held it up for the table. “Why’d you have to ruin O.P.’s fun?”

“I was really not all that bothered about licking my blaster,” Optimus said, face still hidden by his hands.

“Irresponsible of him,” Ratchet huffed. Blaster elbowed Prowl.

“Hey, Prowl, where’s the Megatron one? Prime’s still out for the count, I need to see this.”

Prowl flicked onto the next poster in the stack and immediately slammed the entire lot face down onto the table in reflex, his face red. Blaster put a hand over his mouth.

“Oh my,” he said.

“I’m not sure I ever wanted to see Megatron like that,” Prowl said faintly. Optimus groaned in agreement. Jazz made a grasping motion with his one visible hand and Blaster slid the offending poster across the table to him. Sunstreaker held it up for him and leaned to the side so Jazz could see it.

He was draped languidly on the throne that Jazz had always known that he would have, with one leg thrown over an armrest, spreading his thighs wide. He had the fingers of one hand splayed across the junction of his hip joint and his inner thigh, and the other stretched out above his head, grasping the top of the throne, his whole body stretched out into one long line of violence contained, drawing the eye and inviting the viewer to admire the sheer power in his struts, all the way up to his eyes. Megatron could- well, he smouldered like he was considering whether or not he wanted to wait for permission before leaping right of out of the frame and ravishing you. Or - Jazz reconsidered, his eyes briefly drawn to Megatron’s lightly pursed lips - before pinning you in place with just his eyes and just- strolling right out of frame and coming to claim you. The eyes said he was going to and the pose told you he could. Primus, the mech could lounge insolently.

Sunstreaker wolf-whistled.

“Damn, I think I get it now, Prime,” he said. Optimus let his head land on the table with a heavy thud.

“Why’s this so much worse than the others?” Jazz asked. Optimus mumbled something indiscernible.

“Aside from the fact you think he’s hot, that is.” The Prime lifted his head and made a very rude gesture in Jazz’s direction. He grumbled something while staring off at a point somewhere over the top of Sunstreaker’s head, louder this time, but still broadly incomprehensible.

“What’s that?” Jazz asked. “You want Megatron’s-”

“I said I recognise the pose, okay!” Prime snapped. “I recognise the pose…”

He looked down at his hands as if he couldn’t comprehend them. The rest of him looked at him in a very similar manner.

“What do you mean, you recognise the pose?” Ratchet demanded. “What does that mean?”

“It was...” Optimus began in a small voice. “Shockwave used to do these posters-”

“Hold on, Shockwave _what_?” Bumblebee questioned.

“Used to be a hot Senator before they cut his head off,” Sunstreaker told him. Prime winced. “Carry on.”

“That-” his eyes flickered over to the Megatron poster, still held with the back facing him in Sunstreaker’s hand “-was my favourite.” He caught Bumblebee looking at him, vaguely horrified, and let his head sink slowly back down to rest against the table again.

“I can’t believe they’ve been _gossiping_ about me,” he said bitterly.

Jazz thought he could picture it, a horrifying tableau with Megatron reclining on his throne, Shockwave picking up and nudging his limbs into the required position, checking a little vintage poster in his hand for tips every so often, all for the purpose of taunting his now all-but-confirmed ex. He wondered if Megatron had picked up the smoulder from the original Senator Shockwave likeness or if that was something he’d brought to the homage all of his own. He looked over at Optimus, forehead still pressed against the surface of the meeting table, and decided it wasn’t too important he find out.

“What I wouldn’t give to get my hands on one of those Senator Shockwave shots,” Sunstreaker said, looking wistful. “For, you know, the artistic value and that.”

“It’s weird to think of Shockwave doing… things like that.” Bumblebee shuddered.

“I SAID-” Sunstreaker said, considerably louder and more blatantly directed at Optimus this time “-WHAT I WOULDN’T GIVE TO GET MY HANDS ON ONE OF THOSE SENATOR SHOCKWAVE SHOTS.”

“Well you can’t fragging have them,” Optimus snapped.

“Aha!” Sunstreaker snapped his fingers. “I _knew_ you still had some! So, what are you thinking, we homage right back?”

“We homage back?” Ratchet asked.

“Yeah!” Said Sunstreaker. “Bust out our own sexy Senator shots and hit them right back in the same place they hit us.”

“I like it,” said Ironhide.

“We should probably look into getting more bots in for the next wave of shoots,” Blaster suggested, “get some diversity going on. They can’t all be of Prowl, he’ll kill us all.”

“That’s true,” said Prowl.

“Information gathering can shift focus onto who the neutrals think is hot quite easily,” Jazz offered.

“I know! We should get Thunderclash!” Blaster said, snapping his fingers. There was a silence as they all briefly fantasised about the possibility of sexy Thunderclash photos.

“It won’t work,” came a grumble from a Prime-shaped lump. “That’s targeting Shockwave, not Megatron, and Shockwave isn’t capable of being bothered by anything anymore. They’re trying to rattle me. I don’t want them to know it worked.”

“Or-” Ironide suggested, leaning forward, excited “-you rattle Megatron right back.” Optimus looked up from his table, grumpily focusing in on him.

“This better be good,” he said.

“Didn’t Megatron get a gun mode recently?” Ironhide said. Optimus looked at him with hostile incomprehension, but Ratchet groaned. He’d got it.

“What,” Ratchet demanded, “is with this obsession with licking each other’s firearms? Rung would have a field day with all of you, I tell you.”

“Oh frag, I love it,” Sunstreaker said.

“You want me to lick a gun that looks like Megatron’s alt mode?” Prime asked. He threw back his head and cackled. “I’m in.”

“I don’t know how you think you’re going to do that,” Prowl said. “It’s a new _Decepticon_ model, only just hitting the production lines and definitely not widely used. How do you think we’re going to get one of those?”

“Oh, Prowl,” Jazz said sadly. “You show a worrying lack of vision sometimes. Clearly I’m going to steal one.”

“You seriously think Prime is going to sign off on a dangerous mission into the heart of hostile Decepticon territory just to- what? Just to steal a photo-shoot prop?” Prowl demanded.

“Get it done, Jazz,” Prime said tiredly.

“What? Optimus?!” Prowl squeaked, scandalised.

“I’m not letting him get away with this,” Optimus said. “They can’t just fragging talk about me like that. It’s fragging rude.”

“I’ll have something put together for your approval ASAP, sir,” Jazz said.

“Let’s talk back in my office,” Prime acknowledged.

“This is bringing out the worst in all of us,” Prowl moaned.

“Don’t worry Prowl,” Ironhide said, “ _you_ don’t have to lick it.”

“Jazz,” Blaster said suddenly. Jazz knew that tone of voice. That was a warning. His systems spun into high alert.

“There’s-” Blaster cleared his throat “-there’s a _Soundwave_ one over here.”

There was a moment of stillness.

“Hey! _Hey_!” Sunstreaker shouted as he was unceremoniously tossed out of the much-contested chair and then used as a springboard for Jazz to launch himself right across the table in one single powerful flip. He landed on his toes in a crouch in front of Blaster and snatched the proffered Soundwave poster right out of his hands.

“Sunstreaker is too heavy for his frametype to lift,” Ratchet sighed. “It always freaks me out when he flouts the laws of physics.” Jazz’s visor brightened.

“He-he’s taken his visor off!” He squealed.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE spread the word, only through complete market saturation can we all achieve our goal of having someone draw that sexy megatron poster


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jazz steals some shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SWINDLE/JAZZ NEW OTP I uh.... made a playlist bc no self control https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL2_rV3W2VfP3qVrkoi8eMMLvLmhFzUQeW please indulge me
> 
> Warning: contains baby Getaway feelings

 

 

 

“Did Soundwave really take his visor off?” Punch asked excitedly, later, as Jazz supervised Getaway affixing a scope to his rifle. He cursed Prowl’s name. Seeing an opportunity to punish him for… well, everything, really, Prowl had held Optimus and he to ransom, swearing not to let them run this ‘inane and pointlessly dangerous mission’ unless Jazz let two of his new recruits tag along for the experience. This Getaway, he didn’t think he minded having with him all that much. Seemed pretty sharp, and knew his way around a rifle. He watched as the mech flicked out the stand and settled into picture perfect sniping position, before looking up at him for approval. MTO, Prowl had said. They were all a bit like that; competent but needy. Jazz nodded to him, and Getaway looked quickly away to try and hide how his eyes lit up.

Punch, on the other hand…

“Ah, frag,” Punch hissed as he dropped the harpoon with a clatter. Both Jazz and Getaway winced. Punch swooped down to fetch it, and after another couple of fumbles that had the harpoon waving in some very alarming directions (Jazz had to duck), he finally had it seated in the launcher.

“So, did he?” He looked up expectantly.

“Sort of?” Jazz said, waving an unsure hand. “It was in his hand but he had his back to the camera. I was heartbroken.”

“That sucks, sir,” Punch said, quite sincerely. Jazz liked him a little bit more.

“ _Prowl_ said,” Getaway began - with the pompous air of a bot all too eager to imply that Prowl said a great many things to him, and if only you would be so kind as to ask, Getaway would be willing to enlighten you- “that you were _far_ too interested in Soundwave’s face.” He pulled the safety back for emphasis, and with a metallic thunk, another magazine clicked into place. He took a preliminary glance through the scope and nodded a little to himself.

“Oh, Prowl said that, did he?” Jazz mused. “Well, that’s his own fault for being boring. The rest of us want to know, right Punch?” He nudged his other recruit, who’d been busy examining the harpoon gun by pointing the business end right in his own face and peering down the tube. He hastily snapped to attention.

“Sure do, sir!” Punch said cheerily. “Skids bet me a month of cleaning detail that he wears the mask because he’s cute.”

“You were a fool to take that bet, my friend,” Jazz said.

“Yeah…” Punch said sadly. Getaway rolled his optics and turned his attention back to the scope.

“Two guards at back entrance,” he reported. “Want me to take them out?” Damn. Eager.

“Belay that,” he said. “Stealth first, then we get trigger-happy as a last resort. Punch?”

“Me?” Punch asked.

“Yes, you,” Jazz said. “You ready to shoot that line?” He pointed to the harpoon. Punch bounced a little in his excitement.

“Where d’you want it?” Punch asked, holding the gun ready. Jazz came round to his side.

“Adjust your vision to 3x magnification,” Jazz said, “and take a look right where I’m pointing.”

“Wait, hold on, let me just- woah!” Punch wheeled backwards dramatically, only not falling over because of the grip Jazz had on his arm. Jazz held onto him patiently as he looked around everywhere wildly, his optics zooming in and out.

“Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to do that before!” He laughed. Jazz thought that Punch seemed to be a lot fresher of a recruit that Prowl had implied. He heard Getaway tut.

“Right, where am I looking? The big old vent grate thing? Okay, yeah, okay.” He hefted the harpoon gun onto his shoulder, adjusting his optics one more time with a little whirring sound, and fired.

The line shot out straight and true, the claw at the end opening up and burying itself in the metal of the vent tower. Jazz tugged on the line a couple of times, finding it taut. “Good,” he said.

He took the harpoon gun from Punch and pulled a lever on the side, releasing the other end of the line into his hand. He bent down and drove it into the roof underneath them. Upon contact with the ground, a little light on the side started blinking and with a grinding sound it began to drill itself deeper into the surface. Jazz tugged on it again when it was settled, and then turned to Getaway.

“No visible reaction,” the sniper said. “Looks like you’re good to go.”

“Tight,” Jazz said, rubbing his hands together. “Right, this should be a quick in-and-out, my mechs. I expect both of you to _wait here_ -” this directed quite clearly at Punch “-and keep an eye on the guards for me. You’ve both got me on comms, right?”

“Yes boss!” Punch exclaimed.

“Urgh, _yes_ ,” Getaway hissed, not looking away from his scope.

“Yeah? Well, I want you to do a check for me,” Jazz commanded. “Come on, standard procedure.” Getaway rolled his optics, but a moment later his voice came crackling through Jazz’s commlink, saying _:I’ve got this. Prowl says I’m one of his best, you know:_.

_:Uh, so, uh, what if it’s not a quick in-and-out?:_ Punch asked, a moment later.

“I’ll let you know if I need backup at any point, alright?” Jazz told them firmly.

“Hey,” Punch said suddenly. “Why’s he got a scope? Our eyes zoom in.”

“That’s a good question, Punch,” Jazz praised. Punch beamed. “Optical zoom just isn’t quite sensitive enough to give good results when making precise distance shots of the kind a sniper needs to make. There’s a bit more of a lag when you adjust them, and it can be disorienting going straight from 4x magnification to basic vision in a battle situation. Most mechs choose to use a scope.”

“Huh, cool,” Punch commented.

“High command didn’t want to waste the good optics on an MTO-” Getaway said coolly, still with his gaze trained on the two guards posted outside the warehouse “-who probably wouldn’t even get a chance to use them. My optics can only zoom in to 2x. Sir.” He added as an afterthought.

Jazz looked over to Punch, who looked stricken, and Getaway, who was slightly too tense for a bot trying to pass that off as a casual comment.

“Ah,” he said.

An awkward silence descended on the rooftop. Jazz could feel his energon curdling in his lines as Punch determinedly projected his horror at the back of Getaway’s head with distressed optics and Getaway held his every strut completely and totally still in the hopes that nobody would engage with his emotionally loaded confession.

“Quick in and out, sir?” Getaway prompted.

“Right, er, yes,” Jazz said. He reached into his subspace and pulled out his descender, a little unit that clipped onto a line and switched between a friction hitch and a smooth-as-anything pulley for abseiling or zip-lining whenever either situation arose. It was a Wheeljack original and he carried it everywhere. Punch peered over his shoulder with an interested optic.

“What does that do?” He asked.

“You’re gonna love this one,” Jazz told him with a grin. He fastened it onto the line as a pulley and ran it back and forth along the line to test. Slick and frictionless as if it came out of ‘Jack’s lab yesterday. He extended the handles.

“Keep hold of that for me, will you?” Punch scrambled forward to obey, holding it down with both hands, quivering with tension. Jazz bounced from foot to foot to limber up, doing a couple of stretches to feel the servos in his shoulders begin to loosen. He sat down on the edge of the roof next to the line with his feet dangling over the edge. Punch squeaked. Getaway looked up from his scope to see what was happening.

“What _are_ you doing?” Getaway asked, disapproving.

“Kid, Prowl _wishes_ he was this cool,” Jazz told him. He ran a small magnetic current through his palms and leant forward, grabbing the handle and swinging himself out into open space.

“Let go, Punch,” he commanded, once he had himself settled.

“What?” Punch said. “You’re just gonna-”

Jazz looked over his shoulder to address him.

“Sure am.”

Getaway’s head appeared next to Punch’s concerned expression.

“And this is standard protocol, is it?” He asked.

“Not really,” said Jazz.

“Hm,” Getaway tutted.

“Sometimes-” Jazz began to tell them both.

He considered this one of his most important lessons to impart, and he hoped that they might internalise it.

“-when you’re in the middle of a war, you need to take the time to make your own fun.”

“Hey Punch,” Getaway said over him, “can you hold this a second?”

“Sure!” Punch chirped. He held out his hands. Both of them. Getaway looked down at the offered palms, and then at Jazz’s retreating form as he zipped off towards the other roof.

“Thanks,” Getaway said.

“Frag,” Punch hissed.

Jazz smiled to himself as he flew right over the heads of the two guards posted at the entrance to the warehouse. They’d done their homework on their way over here. These guys were two total nonentities; Battletrap and some random even Prowl didn’t have more than a couple of words on - Flyhigh.

Jazz was far too much of a professional to whoop out loud on a stealth mission, but he couldn’t deny that he felt some of what flyers called ‘sky-joy’ (a loose translation) when he was hurtling towards a spot on a distant rooftop with only his wits, the power of friction, and a thin cable between him and falling to his death. Maybe he should’ve been a flyer, or maybe there was just an empty space in his processor where the self preservation was supposed to go. Prowl had made it quite clear which he thought the problem was.

Jazz let go of the handles and flipped into a crouch on the rooftop, just in front of the vent grate. The little descender unit trundled along happily without him and smacked into the wall with a thud. He detached it and tucked it back into its spot in his subspace.

_:In position:_ he told his teammates over the group channel.

_:Acknowledged:_ said Getaway.

_:That was one of the coolest things I’ve ever seen:_ Punch replied.

Jazz transformed one of his fingers and began removing the screws that held the vent cover in place.

_:Update.:_ he commanded. _:Any movement on the door?:_

_:Negative.:_ Getaway reported. _:Guards remain at their posts.:_

_:I think one of them might be recharging standing up.:_ said Punch.

He lifted the vent cover off and slipped inside. Primus, he hadn't been in any vents for ages. He was getting quite nostalgic. Being high command, to forgive the vulgar phrase, sucked tailpipe. He never got to have fun anymore.

Prowl might have something to say about that, given that most of the fun he did have was at Prowl’s expense, but Prowl wasn’t here right now.

He sent out a short sonar pulse as he wriggled, to map out the rest of the journey. It wasn’t too long or twisty (corners were the difficult bits) and looked roomy enough for him to squeeze through all the way, which was remarkably poorly thought out. If Decepticons were stupid enough to build a warehouse with vents big enough for a mech to fit in then they deserved to be stolen from, in his opinion. True, he could fit through vents a lot smaller than most mecha would expect, given his relative size and the laws of physics, but this was crazy. A cassette could practically stand up in here. Who’d signed off on this?

Shelving the mystery for another time, he crawled onwards, and just about jumped right out of his plating when he put an elbow forward and it fell straight through the hatch into open space. He hurriedly scrambled backward. This was the right grate to come out of, he was sure of it, but it sure as hell shouldn’t have been open.

_:Any other mechs in here, far as we know?:_ Jazz asked his team.

_:This area should be clear, apart from the guards.:_ Getaway said. _:Why?:_

_:Is there someone there?:_ Punch demanded. _:Are you gonna be in a fight? Do you need backup?:_

_:I’ll let you know.:_ he said. _:Jazz out.:_

He slithered through the vent opening and dropped to the floor in a crouch, wary. A mech stood in front of the shelves he himself had come to loot, rifling through them and stuffing the occasional weapon into his overly roomy subspace. Jazz straightened up and sighed.

“What the hell are you doing here, Swindle?” Jazz demanded.

Swindle shrieked and threw the pile of guns in his arms in the air.

“Oh, Jazz,” Swindle wheezed, his hand over his chest as he leant on one of the shelves for support. “Thank Primus. You damn near frightened the spark out of me! Don’t do that!”

“You were expecting someone else?” Jazz asked, folding his arms under his bumper.

“Yeah, I thought you were one of the guards or something,” Swindle said. “That would’ve been awkward!” He laughed, a full and rich laugh that was only slightly sinister. “What are you here for?” He opened his subspace drawer back up and turned around to face the shelves again. “You should’ve let me know if you were looking for something,” he said, as he swept flash grenades off the shelf straight into the open drawer, “I could’ve saved you the trip!”

_:Hey, Jazz, what’s it look like in there? Do you need backup? Do you need me to come in? I’ll come in if you want me to, I-:_

_:Primus, Punch, shut the frag-:_

Jazz swiftly blocked their frequencies without a hint of guilt.

“Don’t sound so perky, Swindle,” Jazz commented, as he sidled up behind Swindle to peer over his shoulder and into his personal pocket dimension. Swindle slammed the drawer shut.

“Naughty, naughty,” Swindle said, wagging a finger. “A magician never reveals his secrets.”

“I might be here to blow the place up, for all you know.” Jazz leant against the shelf next to Swindle casually (conveniently blocking his view of the exit, casually). “You gonna climb into your own subspace or something to get out?”

Swindle winked. With his massive optics, the effect was very striking.

“Hold on, can you do that?”

“Baby, you don’t know the first thing about what I can do,” Swindle purred.

“Oh?” Jazz grinned. “Is that right?” He leaned in a little closer.

“And besides,” Swindle continued, nudging Jazz out of his way to check out the triple load long-range carburetor combustion rifle on the shelf behind him. Jazz made an affronted noise. “You’re obviously not here to blow the place up. Mmm, I’m taking this,” he told Jazz, after a moment examining the gun. He tucked in away in his subspace drawer. “Hope that wasn’t what you were here for.”

“Please, Wheeljack could make one of those with his optics offlined,” Jazz scoffed. He leant against the shelf next to swindle as he pored over the contents.  “I could easily have already planted the explosives. Did ya think about that?”

Swindle fixed him with a stern look. His narrowed optics were still a lot bigger than the average bot’s widened ones.

“You think I was forged yesterday, huh?” Swindle said. “Trust me, you look _twice_ as smug when you’ve just wired a place up. Everyone can see it, it’s obscene.”

Jazz gasped. “I do _not_! I-” he placed a proud hand over his spark “-am a professional.”

“A professional pain in my aft, yeah,” Swindle agreed.

“You love it.”

“I suppose you do keep things interesting,” Swindle mused. “And you pay well. And you annoy Soundwave.”

“That _is_ one of my main reasons for living.”

“Speaking of paying well…” Swindle seamlessly switched into salesman mode at a speed that left Jazz reeling. “What are you in the market for today? If you ziplined in, which I _know_ you like, I’ve got something _fantastic_ for you in here that could only enhance the experience…” he dove into his drawer, rummaging furiously.

“Hold on.” Jazz held up a hand for Swindle to stop. “We can talk about that later, when we’re not both in the middle of breaking and entering.”

“I guess…” Swindle said grumpily, sliding the drawer shut.

“I’m looking for a certain model of handgun,” Jazz explained. “Very new, very sexy, very decepticon.”

“Prowl sent you?”

“Under duress,” Jazz admitted. “It’s for the propaganda campaign.”

“Ha!” Swindle cackled. “Nice!” He and Jazz high-fived.

“So what model is it? Maybe I picked it up?” Swindle asked. “I’ll give you a good price!”

“Well,” said Jazz. “You know how Megatron changed his alt recently?”

There was a pause.

“I didn’t know you Autobots had it in you, damn!” Swindle cackled, slapping his thigh. “That right there is a personal grudge. I’m impressed.”

“O.P. wants it.”

“Prime?” Swindle boggled. “Wow. What’s he gonna do with it, step on it or something?”

“Now now-” Jazz smirked. “-you’re gonna have to wait for the general release like everyone else.”

“Damn you to the pit, Jazz,” Swindle cursed. “I thought we were friends.”

“Tell you what, maybe I’ll give you a hint if you help me get it.” Jazz winked, or at least he flashed his visor. Swindle knew what he meant.

Swindle made a great show of considering, arms folded across his chest and tapping his toe, even pulling up his schedule on his HUD (Jazz could see the data flashing past behind his slightly unfocused optics), but Jazz knew he wouldn’t be able to resist the promise of insider information on something he might one day be able to sell.

“It’s over here,” Swindle said finally. He grabbed another flash grenade off the shelf next to him and slipped into into his subspace drawer without even looking at it, before brushing past Jazz and striding off into the wider warehouse, expecting him to follow. Jazz trotted obediently after him.

It was a pretty big place, just like all his pre-mission prep had told him (because what was the point of hitting somewhere small? Jazz had style, okay), but all the blueprints and hacked security feeds in the world couldn’t compare to actually being in the thick of it, with all the experimental and probably highly dangerous tech surrounding him, up to the rafters. He could spend days in here, and never get tired of it. The air smelled of warm metal and oil and that indefinable combination of the two that Wheeljack called the Death smell. He took it all in with a smile. He loved that smell.

“Good tech, huh,” Swindle said with the air of a proud tour guide, watching Jazz’s lovestruck expression as he gazed around the warehouse shelves like a starry-opticked new-build. “Megatron’s really pushing the research and development angle right now. When he isn’t pouting for the camera, that is.”

“Man, I really need to get O.P. to let Wheeljack do more disturbing slag in the lab when I get back,” Jazz said sadly. “We don’t have some of this stuff.”

“We can talk later,” Swindle assured him.

“I wouldn’t buy a _grenade_ from you, you filthy con artist,” Jazz said.

“Takes one to know one!” Swindle sang. “Ah, there it is!” He pointed ahead of him, to a towering shelving unit right ahead of them, against the back wall of the warehouse. Arrayed at the very top, because of course, were a small amount of the cutting edge personal handguns that intelligence had told them Megatron now had as his alt mode.

“Frag yes, they’re even sexier in person,” said Jazz.

“I’m going to bleed the Ammonites dry for these,” Swindle purred.

“Enjoy yourself.” Jazz patted him on the shoulder as he moved forward, inspecting the shelving and pressing down on the shelf at eye level, feeling if it’d take his weight. “I didn’t say I’d give _you_ any, though.”

“Yeah you will.”

Jazz considered that.

“Yeah, sure, why not? Come on, come give me a leg up.”

Swindle came over to him and knelt down, offering up his cupped hands and boosting Jazz up until he caught hold of the third shelf up.

_:Gun located,:_ he updated his team. _:I shouldn’t be in here for more than a few kliks longer.:_

_:Jazz! Finally!:_

_:Jazz!:_

_:Do you have any idea how long it’s been?:_ Getaway demanded. _:What the frag, Jazz?:_

_:The guards left, Jazz!:_ Punch shrieked. Jazz winced. _:DO YOU NEED BACKUP I’M READY TO BACK YOU UP JAZZ JUST SAY THE WORD-:_

_:What he means to say,:_ Getaway interjected, _:is that the guards have left their post and are currently patrolling the building. Please be careful.:_

_:I’ll be fine, guys,:_ Jazz said. _:I can get Swindle to play lookout or something.:_

_:What?:_ Punch sounded upset.

_:What the hell is Swindle doing there?:_ Getaway demanded.

_:He does things like this all the time, it’s fine.:_ Jazz said.

“What’s taking so long?” Swindle yelled up at him from the floor. “Jazz, I want my guns!”

“Look, just- just shut up and keep watch, or you’re not getting any guns!” Jazz waved frantically in the direction of the rest of the warehouse. Swindle rolled his optics stayed right where he was, folding his arms across his chest and tapping his foot impatiently.

“It’s all gonna be fine, Jazz, if the guards come in we can just kill them, right?”

_:Things like what, Jazz? Does Prowl know about this?:_

_:Jazz do you need me?:_

“Swindle they’re from _your side_! Primus, okay, okay, you-” he stopped climbing and pointed at Swindle, who made a ‘who? me?’ gesture- “stay here!”

_:And you two! I MIGHT need Punch. Key word being might. Please stand by.:_

Punch whooped. Jazz turned his direct output volume down by about 50%.

He finally got hold of the last shelf, hauling himself up with a grunt and wriggling onto it. He took a moment to collect himself, marvelling at what an all-round chaotic mess this trip had turned out to be. Ah, what fun.

“Alright Swindle!” He rolled over and knelt up, scooping up a selection of the handguns. “They’re coming down! Be ready!”

“Gotcha!” Came the reply. Without further ado, Jazz dumped his armful over the side of the shelf.

“Oh- hey! Hey! Not cool, Jazz!”

Jazz snickered to himself. He cast his expert eye over the rest of the equipment on offer and selected the shiniest, popping open his subspace and tucking it away safely inside, wrapped in an insulating layer he liked to keep in there in case the need to transport ill-gotten contraband ever came up unexpectedly.

“One of those got me right in the head, you crankshaft!” Swindle snapped. “Is that any way to treat a friend?”

“Your head is made of metal,” Jazz called back. “You’ll be fine!” Swindle subsided into sullen mumbling, at least until Jazz threw another couple of guns at him.

“Frag you! I’ve got to pick all this up now!” Jazz poked his head over the side and grinned down at Swindle, who made a very rude gesture at him.

“You can bend over, can’t you?”

“Oh, you _know_ I can bend over!” Swindle snapped at him, bending down to pick up one of the guns. “Just let me catch the next one, alright?”

“Um, are we interrupting something?” someone else said.

Jazz and Swindle froze, Swindle with his hand deep inside his subspace, tucking the gun away, and Jazz up on his knees at the top of the shelf, in the middle of lining up another toss right at Swindle’s head. Standing right behind them were two of the facility’s guards, with rifles trained on them, looking rather trigger-happy.

“Ah, slag,” Jazz said.

_:Punch, looks like I might need you after all.:_

 

* * *

 

“Okay, so, the first thing we have to get straight is that this is all a big misunderstanding, right?” Swindle chuckled personably. “I was only… inspecting the area? Yeah, I was inspecting. That sounds good. Anyway, I was inspecting the goods, and I found this Autobot _interloper_ -” he punctuated this with a stern glare in Jazz’s direction, and Jazz stuck his tongue out in return- “stealing our finely crafted Decepticon technology! I was _just_ about to make a citizen’s arrest when you two came in. Thank Primus you’re here! Now, can you please uncuff me?” Swindle held his cuffed hands out towards them with a winsome grin.

“I mean, that checks out?” The one on the left - an above-average sized flyer in a shade of hot pink - said, lowering his gun.

“Shut up, Flyhigh,” said the other - the blue-legged, white-torso’ed duocon they had on their records as Battletrap - looking distinctly unimpressed. The pink bot, Flyhigh, shut up.

“Swindle,” Battletrap barked, “we were both briefed about you before we were assigned here. While _some_ of us-”

“It was like, looooong,” Flyhigh whined.

“-clearly didn’t read it, _I_ did, and I’m not going to believe a single bit of slag that comes out of your mouth.”

“But Onslaught said-” Swindle tried.

“Onslaught is in Helex! With the rest of the Combaticons! Where _you_ should be!”

“You’re in _troooouble_ ,” Jazz sang. Swindle aimed a kick at him.

“I don’t know what you’re so smug about, Autobot,” Battletrap sneered. He began to pace in front of Jazz, where he was sat cross-legged on the floor, his wrists cuffed in front of him, trying to look appropriately nervous. It was clearly meant to be the slow, measured stalk of a predator, but it just made him look anxious. Behind him, Flyhigh was pointing his gun somewhere in the vicinity of about a meter above Jazz’s left audial.

“You’re at our mercy,” Battletrap continued, “and you don’t have a Decepticon general asking for your safe return like this-” he jabbed an accusatory thumb in Swindle’s direction “-sorry excuse for a soldier does.”

“ _You’re_ a sorry excuse for a soldier.”

“I don’t know,” said Jazz. “Soundwave might want a catch up. Have you asked?”

“Hah!” Battletrap snorted. “I’m not letting Soundwave anywhere near this! You’re mine! If I bring you in, I can finally get a _real_ posting, where I won’t have to deal with this idiot any more.”

“That was kind of mean, ‘Trap.” Flyhigh pouted. The muzzle of his gun drifted a couple more inches to the left.

“I told you we should just kill them,” said Swindle. “I don’t think anyone would mind.”

“ _Swindle._ ” Jazz tried.

“Onslaught will kill me if I get arrested again. I think he meant it this time, too. So it would be for a good cause.”

“Swindle, you’re welcome to kill them if you can,” said Jazz. “ _I_ can’t, though. Look, I’m in handcuffs!” He held his cuffed wrists up and tried to look sincere.

“As if you couldn’t get out of those in five seconds,” Swindle scoffed. Battletrap bristled, his plating flexing outward.

“Yeah, but it’s polite to play along, don’t you think?”

_:Hey!:_ The sudden crackle of his comms back into life made Jazz twitch. Battletrap flinched, and tried to cover it up by fluttering his platting again.

“Can he, uh, actually do that?” Flyhigh asked, sounding worried.

_:Hey, Jazz, don’t be like, scared or anything, it’s just me, alright?:_ Punch said. Jazz immediately felt scared.

_:What are you up to, kid?:_ Jazz asked warily.

“That’s why you’re pointing a gun at him then, isn’t it Flyhigh?” Battletrap sneered.

“That is absolutely definitely where I’m pointing my gun, sir,” said Flyhigh.

_:It’s all totally under control, sir,:_ said Punch, _:I just need to know their names.:_

_:Big one’s Battletrap, in charge, pink one’s Flyhigh, frag-poor aim,:_ Jazz reported. _:This better not be dangerous, Punch, I swear to Primus.:_

“I doubt you even know where you’re aiming that thing,” Swindle taunted.

“I’m getting less and less interested in giving you back to Onslaught, you little crankshaft,” Battletrap growled, turning on the con artist. Flyhigh hurriedly adjusted his aim while his back was turned.

_:It’s cool, Getaway has eyes on us.:_

_:Could you also get Swindle out?:_ Jazz asked quickly, before he could think better of it. _:Onslaught will kill him if he gets given back in chains again, and he’s a really useful bot to keep on the good side of.:_

_:If I have to, :_ Punch grumbled. _:Getaway won’t like it though. Punch out.:_

“Please, you think I’m scared of you?” Swindle cackled. “Onslaught calls me a crankshaft as a term of endearment! He’d eat you for breakfast!”

“Well,” Battletrap sneered, “Onslaught isn’t _here_ right now, so I can-”

“Erm, hello, stop right there?” said Someone Very Familiar.

“Who the frag are you?” Battletrap snapped. Flyhigh spun to point his gun in the direction of the voice.

“Counterpunch!” Punch announced boomingly, striding confidently forward, letting Jazz get a better look at him.

Ah. Now this must be why Prowl was trying to fast-track this airhead.

Punch looked completely different. What had been yellow was blue, what was blue was now yellow, his helm shape was _completely_ different, and he’d added on some shoulder pauldrons that disguised his silhouette. Such an incredible outlier ability - an entire second frame to wear! - was nothing more than a gift from Primus, especially for Prowl, left on his desk with a little bow tied around it and a note on top that said ‘sorry for all the millions of years of war and suffering and the like’.

“Who’s Counterpunch when he’s at home?”

“ _Battletrap who am I pointing my gun at?!_ ”

“I’ve been sent by high command to inspect the operation you’re running here, Battletrap,” ‘Counterpunch’ said. “I’m not sure I like what I see.”

“High command never told me you were coming?” Battletrap said in a small voice, all his anger and bluster suddenly tempered. Jazz, judging Flyhigh sufficiently distracted, popped his cuffs open. It wouldn’t do to leave Punch without backup, although he was doing surprisingly well.

“High command doesn’t tell you a lot of things,” Counterpunch said, sweeping past him to go and frown disapprovingly down at Swindle. Battletrap made a face at his back.

“Hello, sir,” Swindle said cheerily. “Have you heard I didn’t do it?”

“It’s true,” Jazz agreed. “He was framed by a wicked Autobot. By which I mean myself. Hi!” He waved. Counterpunch looked him up and down, then turned back to Swindle. Flyhigh frowned at Jazz for a moment, looking at his uncuffed hand, but he didn’t register anything wrong and pointed his gun back at Swindle. Jazz shrugged and did a quick backwards roll into the shadow cast by the shelving.

“Didn’t do it?” Counterpunch snorted. “I’ve heard that one before. You’re coming with me.”

“I feel ganged up on,” Swindle complained.

“Yeah, the Autobot-” Battletrap began.

“YOU’RE supposed to be in Helex!” Counterpunch snapped with a sudden burst of volume, sufficiently distracting Battletrap and letting Jazz wiggle into position behind him.

“I feel like Onslaught is really quite used to this kind of behaviour from me,” Swindle said. “I’m trying to give him a static working environment. Me being here is a very selfless action.”

“You talk even more slag than they told me you did,” said Battletrap.

“Thank you,” said Swindle.

“Keep your eyes on him, Flyhigh,” Counterpunch commanded. “He might try something.”

“Gotcha, boss,” Flyhigh acknowledged. He adjusted his stance. Jazz watched in astonishment as he lurked. That was actually a worse grip than before.

“Hey! I’m the boss here!” Battletrap whined.

“Swindle!” Counterpunch barked. “Do you have anything to say in your defense before I drag you back to Helex and throw you on Onslaught’s mercy?”

“Trick question! Onslaught doesn’t have any mercy! Ha!” Swindle stuck his tongue out.

“Hey, what happened to Jazz?” Flyhigh asked.

“Ah, _frag_ ,” said Jazz, and leapt up and knocked Battletrap out cold. Flyhigh shrieked and whirled around as the big mech hit the floor, and Jazz sprang out of the way as he fired wildly, one round hitting the light, another ricocheting off the wall and several more burying themselves in the shelving, sending it creaking and lurching alarmingly.

“Ah,” Swindle sighed as he slipped out of his cuffs. “That’s better.” He patted Counterpunch on the arm. “Thanks for the distraction, buddy.” Counterpunch glared furiously at the hand until Swindle removed it.

“My mechs, let's get to know each other later,” Jazz said, taking a hold of each of them. A flash grenade crashed to the ground next to them, followed by the audial-splitting sound of tearing metal. Swindle glanced upwards and winced. “For now we’d better make like Mirage and disappear.”

As they made good their escape, Flyhigh hastily scrambled out of the way of the falling shelves, totally forgetting his gun, and screamed when one of the exclusive top-shelf pistols nearly clipped one of his wings. The cacophony was immense as several million shanix worth of Decepticon technological research and development crashed to the floor behind them. Jazz internally bemoaned the demise of the ‘quick in-and-out, the less people that know I authorised this the better’ that Prowl had begged him for.

Jazz looked back at the woebegone Decepticon as he ushered Counterpunch and Swindle out in front of him, sitting on his aft on the floor looking down at his commander, buried in a pile of expensive weapons. He didn’t seem particularly inclined to get up and try and dig him out. Jazz felt kind of bad.

“That mech has the worst aim of anyone I’ve ever seen,” Swindle said wonderingly. “I’m not sure I could’ve done that to the shelves if I’d tried.”

 

* * *

 

Watching Counterpunch change back into Punch with a series of clicking and rippling micro-transformations proved to be absolutely fascinating. The protruding shoulder pauldrons tucked underneath the plating of his upper arm, his torso rotated almost a full 360 degrees and back again as his chestplate switched out, and - now Jazz was able to see the transformation first hand - he noticed he even lost a couple of inches of height.

“That’s so cool,” Swindle said. “I wish I could buy it.”

“That’s the highest praise he knows how to give, believe me,” Jazz commented. He gave Punch a congratulatory pat on the shoulder. “You did good, kid.”

“Really?!” Punch’s optics shone.

“Yes, well, I guess it all worked out in the end,” Getaway said snippily. He’d made his disapproval of the entire scheme well-known from the moment they’d rendezvoused with him, and seemed to consider its success more of a reflection of the folly of the facility’s Decepticons than Punch’s stellar espionage skills. It was probably a combination of the two, Jazz thought. It was definitely the kind of inventive quick thinking that Spec Ops liked, even if quite literally anything would probably have worked on Flyhigh and Battletrap.

“You too, Getaway,” Jazz assured him.

“I didn’t _do_ anything,” Getaway grumbled. “I just sat on that rooftop and watched.”

“Your sniper stance is picture perfect, my friend.” Jazz suppressed a smile as Getaway immediately stood up a little straighter at that, preening. “Sometimes, that’s all an operation is. Sitting and waiting for your colleagues to pull it off, ready to give emergency support that they quite often won’t need. It’s difficult, to sit there and let someone else do the glamorous job. Well done.” He patted Getaway on the shoulder too.

“Thank you, sir,” Getaway said shyly.

“Both of you will be getting a positive performance review from me to Prowl, that’s for sure,” said Jazz. “Could’ve been a lot messier of an op without the pair of you there.”

“Thought you were too much of a professional for messy,” Swindle teased. “For shame, Jazz.”

“You’re very distracting, you little glitch,” Jazz replied. “That would’ve taken me about five seconds if _you_ hadn’t been there.”

“You know you love it,” Swindle said.

“How do you know Jazz, anyway?” Punch asked suspiciously.

“Oh, we go _way_ back,” Swindle purred, with a cheerful, implicatory little wink in Punch’s direction.

“Oh, do you now?” Getaway said archly, looking meaningfully in Jazz’s direction in a way that suggested Prowl might be hearing about this very soon.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be, Swindle?” Jazz said forcefully.

“I’m not sure I like responsible teacher you,” Swindle grumbled. “Fine, I’ll get out from under your plating. Thanks for getting me out of there-“ this he addressed to Punch “-and let me know when there’s something I can do for you in return.”

“Will do,” Jazz confirmed. “Now frag off.”

“You got it, sweetspark,” Swindle said with another parting wink. He transformed and drove off in the opposite direction than they were to be heading; deeper into Decepticon territory.

“Why are his eyes so big?” Punch wondered.

“Primus, Punch,” Getaway groaned. “You can’t just ask why people’s eyes are big.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what’s coming????
> 
> -
> 
> Megatron of Tarn, self-proclaimed scourge of the Autobots, noble revolutionary and Lord of the Decepticons, was not what anyone would call a mech of few words. Quite the opposite, in fact. He was verbose, grandiose, a maker of articulate speeches that stirred the sparks and minds of the masses, and if he said so himself - which he did - a mighty fine poet.
> 
> But there were no words for this.
> 
> -
> 
> :3c

**Author's Note:**

> peace sign emoji


End file.
